


Consultants Seeking Companionship

by twyly56



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, BAMF John Watson, Crack Treated Seriously, Criminal John Watson, Dark(ish) John Watson, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hiding in Plain Sight, John Watson Flirts, John Watson is Moriarty, John Watson's Jumpers, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government, Not Really a Crack Fic, Oblivious Sherlock Holmes, Sebastian Moran & John Watson Friendship, Secret Identity, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Fluff, but it kind of is, johniarty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 02:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17437829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twyly56/pseuds/twyly56
Summary: The Storyteller was a lonely sort of fellow. He really does enjoy his lucrative work as James Moriarty, but after returning to London from Afghanistan, it's just not as /fun/. He wants someone to talk to, and a chance meeting with an old "friend" of his leads him straight into the path of a certain Sherlock Holmes. John is positively thrilled. Now all he has to do is make sure that Sherlock never gets bored of him...





	1. Chapter 1

Loneliness was rather like a disease, he thought. It could spread from person to person with a simple touch or a few words. Yes, loneliness was a disease, one that couldn't be cured even in the company of another. It affected how how you think and how you live. He thinks he caught it, this ugly disease, and unfortunately even a genius like himself didn't have a cure for such a thing. He had a hole in his chest, and he needed something to fill it up. With what exactly, he wasn't quite sure. 

He couldn't afford to get caught up in emotions with his job, but in his private life, he did like to have someone to talk to. His sister had been good for that until she went off the deep end during her teenage years and started her long and disturbing tangent with alcohol. He had tried girlfriends, boyfriends, but none of them ever lasted long. They were either too docile and would freak out if they knew what he actually did or were the kind who didn't want actual attachments. Sebastian was the closest thing he had to a friend, his right hand man. But it just wasn't the same! 

Was it really too much to ask to just have someone who understood him? 

 

Step. _Click._ Step. _Click._  Step. _Click._  

The well worn groove of the handle of his cane was slotted into his hand, fingers wrapped snugly around it. He leaned his weight on it as he walked down the sidewalk, letting his mind sort of buzz about, taking in his surroundings with an idle eye. A few birds chirped in the background, and some small children ran around off to the left of him, chasing a red ball around, giggling and shoving each other about. He didn't like children as much. He never had, even when he himself was a child. A woman in workout gear jogged past him. His ears pricked when he heard someone call out his name. 

"John?" the voice said. John turned around, halting in the middle of the sidewalk, and his eyes fell on the pudgy man that stood up from the bench, hurriedly clutching his briefcase to his stomach. "John Watson!" The man moved closer to him. "Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together," the man said.

He held out his hand to him. John felt the clammy sweat on Mike's palm as he clasped his hand and shook it, acting like he just recognized him. 

"Yes. Sorry. Yes. Hello, Mike," John replied. 

"Yeah, I know. I got fat," Mike said with a chuckle. 

"No," John responded, shaking his head slightly as the other man released his hand. 

"I heard you were in the desert somewhere getting shot at. What happened?" Mike asked. 

"I got shot," John said flatly. He gestured slightly with his head toward his cane. 

There was an awkward moment of silence, and he registered his old acquaintance's unease. Mike seemed to recover quickly, though.  

"Well, let's get caught up then, mate," Mike suggested.He was grinning. "Come on, there's a place just over there that has decent coffee, and let me tell you that's getting harder and harder to find in London these days."

John let himself be swept along, following the other man down the sidewalk. It didn't take much longer for them to pick up the coffee, even if the shop in question was deplorable in his opinion. Too loud, too many people. See, this is why he usually stayed behind the scenes and pulled strings. He hated dealing with people or at least too many of them at once. 

"I say we go back to the park," Mike said with a smile. "Don't want to waste a day like this, yeah?"

"Yeah. No. Right," John agreed. 

They went back to an empty bench along the walkway at the park. John sat next to him, his cane resting idly against his thigh. He took a swig of his coffee and let out a little sigh. He glanced at Mike. 

"You still at Bart's, then?" John asked him. 

"Yeah. Teaching there. The bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them," Mike admitted with a chuckle. John laughed and shook his head. "What about you? You just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?" 

"Ah, I can't afford London on an army pension," John reminded him. He tapped the fingers of his free hand against his thigh, jiggling his leg absently. 

"And you couldn't bear to be anywhere else," Mike said. "That's not the John Watson I know." 

"Yeah, well, I'm not the John Watson you know," John responded. He let just a bit of his actual persona slip through, enough to make his voice go cold. Just to let Mike have a tiny little peek. The man just glanced away for a moment before looking back at him. 

"Couldn't Harry help?" Mike asked. 

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," John scoffed. 

"Couldn't you just, I don't know, get a flat share or something?" Mike suggested. 

John let out a laugh at that. Though Mike would no doubt mistake his reaction for something else. He could live anywhere in the city if he really wanted to, but no, no, he was the poor army doctor, fresh from the war zone. 

"Come on. Who would want me for a flatmate?" John asked. 

Mike started chuckling and shook his head. John narrowed his eyes at him slightly. 

"What's so funny?" he asked. 

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today," Mike said. 

"Who was the first?" John asked. 

Mike's lips tilted up in another smile. He set his coffee beside him on the bench and made as if to stand up again. 

"Why don't I show you?" he suggested. 

The blonde thought about it for a moment before he stood to follow Mike, gripping his cane tightly in his hand. 

"Oh, why not?" John said. Mike grinned. 

"That's the spirit, mate," he told him. 


	2. Chapter 2

The end of his cane clicked against the whitewashed linoleum flooring as Mike led him through the halls of the hospital. He pulled open a door and held it open for John to go inside. John stepped inside the room, which appeared to be a lab. There were beakers and flasks all about, and a man was hunched over the side of a table, carefully squeezing something from a pipette into a little testing tray. He was wearing a dark suit, minus a tie, with the top button of his white shirt collar undone. His black hair hung in curls over his forehead as he leaned forehead, intent on whatever he was doing. 

When John and Mike came into the room, the man straightened himself, glancing at them for a moment, and John took a moment to appreciate the brightly colored pale eyes before they went back to the lab equipment. The man looked like he was a few years younger than himself, and the lack of facial hair made him look even younger, even when those sharp cheekbones of his were taken into account. He moved his little test tray and moved to sit in the chair by the table. John walked around the side of the table as Mike gestured him onward. 

"A bit different from my day," John observed idly. 

"Oh, you have no idea," Mike agreed. The other person in the room decided to speak up for the first time. 

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," the man said. 

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked him. 

"I prefer to text," the man replied smoothly. He set the aforementioned device back down on the table. Mike patted his pocket and made a face, holding up his empty hands. 

"Sorry. It's in my coat," Mike said. He strolled around the other side of the table. 

"Uh, here. Use mine," John suggested. He dug his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and held it up. 

"Oh. Thank you," the man said. He stood up from his chair and walked over to John. 

"He's an old friend of mine," Mike told him. "John Watson." 

The black haired man made a little hmm and took the phone from John's hand. With a smooth motion, he snapped the keyboard part out and started to tap away at it. 

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" the man said. 

"Sorry?" John asked. He blinked for a second, glancing over at Mike, who was just smiling again. He looked at the man. 

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?" the man asked him. Their eyes met briefly, and John could see the intelligence just brimming under the surface. 

_Fascinating._  

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you..." John started to say when the lab door opened again. 

"Ah, Molly. Coffee," the man said. The small woman with a brown ponytail and a labcoat handed him the red mug. He stared at her for a short moment. "What happened to the lipstick?" 

"Uh, it wasn't working for me," Molly replied softly. 

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth is too... _small_ now," the man told her. He walked back over to his seat, taking a sip of his coffee. 

"Okay," Molly said in a quiet voice. She quickly exited the door. The man set his coffee mug down on the table with a thump. 

"How do you feel about the violin?" he asked. 

"Sorry, what?" John said. 

"I like to play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," the man told him. He gave John a smile that was probably more on the side of polite than genuine, but it was honestly just kind of adorable. 

John glanced back over to Mike, who was messing around with a bottle of pills. 

"You told him about me?" he said. 

"Not a word," Mike replied with a shake of his head. 

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John asked. 

"I did," the man responded as he shrugged on a black overcoat. "I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for, and here he is, right after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service from Afghanistan." He tied a dark blue scarf around his neck. "It wasn't that difficult a leap." 

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked curiously. He, of course, made himself sound a bit more confused than curious. 

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock," the man told him. He walked past him. "Sorry. I've got to dash. I've got to get my riding crop from the mortuary." 

"Is that it?" John asked. The man stopped on his way to the door and turned back to him. He stepped closer to John. 

"Is that what?" he asked. 

"We've only just met, and we're going to look a flat together?" John said. 

"Problem?" the man asked. 

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name," John said. 

"I know you're an army doctor, and you've been sent back home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him. Possible because he's an alcoholic. More likely because he recently walked out on his wife. I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. It's more than enough to be going off of, don't you think?" the man responded with a little smirk. 

He walked back to the door and pulled it open. He was about to leave when he turned back to John. 

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street," the man told him. He winked and disappeared, the door clicking shut behind him. 


	3. Chapter 3

"Hello?" John called. He rapped on the door again. He heard a car door shut behind him, and he glanced back to the man from the hospital step out. He moved away from the door to step toward him. "Ah, Mr. Holmes." 

"Sherlock, please," the dark haired man insisted. He shook John's hand firmly. 

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive, isn't it?" John said. His cane clacked against the ground as he shifted his feet. 

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, has given me a special deal. She owes me a favor," Sherlock told him. He had his hands clasped together behind his back. "A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help her out." 

"Wait - you stopped her husband from being executed?" John said. 

"Oh no," Sherlock responded. "I ensured it." He smiled at John, though it was almost more of a smirk. 

Well, then. John blinked at the taller man for a moment, and the door opened not even a few seconds later. An older woman with short curly brown hair stepped out and looked at Sherlock with a grin. She pulled him into a hug. 

"Sherlock. Hello," the woman greeted him. 

When she stepped back, Sherlock gestured to John with a gloved hand. 

"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson," he said. 

"Oh, hello. Come in, come in," Mrs. Hudson told them. 

"Thank you," John murmured as he passed her on his way in the building. 

"Shall we?" Sherlock said.

He walked behind John before he went past him and strode up the stairs. John followed him up the steps, leaning on his weight on his periodically as he walked. Sherlock waited for a moment at the top of the stairs for him to catch up before he went over to the apartment door. The dark haired man twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open, moving inside, watching John for his reaction. To be honest, it looked a bit like a proliferous hoarder lived there. There were boxes and books and papers strewn all over the place and when he moved to walk further inside, he saw that the kitchen was covered in test tubes and experimenting equipment. 

"Well, this could be nice," John commented idly. It was decently open space that had windows to let in light and couches to sit on, so he supposed all of the other things were just immaterial. Nothing that couldn't be fixed. "Very nice indeed." 

"Yes. Yes, my thoughts precisely," Sherlock said. He pushed his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, letting it swish around his legs. He had an almost smile on his face, which John found himself very much liking. It was cute. "So let's go ahead and get you moved-" 

"As soon as we get this rubbish cleaned out," John tried to say. 

"-in..." Sherlock finished. They stared at each other for a moment in awkward silence. 

"Oh. So this is all..." John trailed off. He waved a hand at the mess in front of them. 

"Well, obviously, I can, uh, tidy up a bit," Sherlock said. He moved some papers into a box and carried a metallic stamp box to plonk it on the shelf by the wall. John raised his cane and pointed it at the rather obvious human skull on Sherlock's shelf. 

"That's a skull," John said. 

"A friend of mine. Well, I say friend," Sherlock replied.

He moved over to the other side of the living room to remove his coat and scarf. The landlady walked up to John. She smiled at him. 

"So what do you think, Dr. Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms," Mrs. Hudson said. John frowned slightly. 

"Of course we'll be needing two," he responded. 

"Oh, don't worry, dear! We've got all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door's got _married ones,_ " Mrs. Hudson told him as she walked past him to the kitchen. He heard her voice call back to his new flatmate. "Sherlock. The mess you've made!" There was a clatter of delicate materials as she moved things around in the kitchen area. 

John adjusted the British flag pillow on the couch and sat down with a little sigh. Sherlock opened up his laptop on the table. 

"I looked you up on the Internet last night," John said. The dark haired man turned to look at him. He pushed his hands into the pockets of his black slacks. 

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock asked. 

"Found your website. The 'Science of Deduction'," John replied. 

"And what did you think?" Sherlock asked. He had that little smile of his again and appeared to be genuinely curious about John's answer. When John remained silent for a while longer, his smile dropped. 

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb," John remarked. 

"Yes. I could read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone," Sherlock said. 

"How?" John asked. Sherlock didn't answer and just turned to face the table again. Mrs. Hudson came into the living room with a newspaper open in her hands. 

"What about these suicides, then, Sherlock? I thought this would be right up your alley. Three of them, exactly the same," the landlady said. 

"Four. There's been a fourth, but something's different this time," Sherlock stated. He stared out of the window. 

"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson said. 

A man with neatly combed greying hair came into the flat through the still open door, panting. John would wager he was a detective. Sherlock turned to look at him, his pale eyes intent. 

"Where?" he asked. 

"Brixton. Larston Gardens," the man responded. 

"What's different about it this time? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different," Sherlock said. 

"You know how they never leave notes?" the man asked. 

"Yes," Sherlock said. 

"Well, this one did. Will you come?" the man asked him. 

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock asked. The man took a moment to wince. 

"Anderson," he told him. Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. 

"No. That doesn't work well with me," the brunette said. 

"Well, he won't be your assistant," the man responded. 

"I _need_ an assistant," Sherlock insisted. 

"Will you come?" the man asked again with a small sigh. 

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind," Sherlock replied. 

"Thank you," the man said.

He walked back out of the apartment, and John could hear his footsteps receding down the stairs. John looked over at Sherlock who just stared at the floor for a few seconds. A grin spread over his face, lighting up his features, and he quite literally jumped into the air. He looked like the personification of the phrase 'jumping for joy'. 

"Brilliant! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. It's Christmas!" Sherlock said. He spun over to his coat and picked it up, tugging it on. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food." 

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson reminded him. 

"Something cold will do," Sherlock replied. "John, have a cup of tea. Make yourself at home. Don't wait up." The door shut with a small bang. 

"Look at him, all rushing about. My husband was just the same. But you're more of the sitting down type, I can tell," Mrs. Hudson remarked. She smiled at him. "I'll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg." 

" _Damn my leg!_ " John snarled. Mrs. Hudson jumped and looked at him. He smiled apologetically. He made sure to avert his eyes like normal people did. It wasn't usual to look someone straight in the eye when they felt awkward or nervous. "Sorry. I'm so sorry. Just sometimes this _bloody thing-_ " 

"I understand, dear. I've got a hip," Mrs. Hudson said, taking his apology in stride. Thank God. 

"A cup of tea would be lovely, thanks," John agreed. He picked up the newspaper from where it was resting on the arm of the chair. 

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson said as she walked back to the kitchen. 

"A couple of biscuits, too, if you've got them," John ventured. 

"Not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson reminded him. 

John's eyes landed on the article about the serial suicides, and he allowed himself a small smile when he saw the man from earlier's face on the front page. D. I. Lestrade. He quickly dropped the newspaper back onto the arm of the couch when he heard footsteps come closer. 

"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor," Sherlock said.

John pushed himself up to his feet, cane clutched in his hand. He cleared his throat. 

"Yes," he replied. 

"Any good?" Sherlock asked. 

"Very good," John said. 

"Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths," Sherlock stated more than asked. 

"Yes," John replied. 

"Seen a bit of trouble, I bet," Sherlock said. He was standing close enough that John could see the different shades of green and blue swirling around in his pale irises. 

"Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much in fact," John remarked. 

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock asked him. 

"Oh God, yes," John said without a moment's hesitation. He followed the dark haired man out the door. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I'll have to skip the tea. Pop out for a bit." 

"Both of you?" the landlady asked. 

"Possible suicides? Four of them? What's the use of sitting at home when there's finally something _fun_ going on?" Sherlock said. He kissed her on the cheek. 

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent," Mrs. Hudson responded. She smacked his arm lightly. 

"Who cares about decent, Mrs. Hudson? The game is on!" Sherlock said. He flung open the door to the building and moved over to the street. "Taxi!" 


End file.
